Of Droogs and Dogs
by MyWords-MySolace
Summary: HPDMHP "Save a dance for me tonight, Potter!" It's Halloween at Hogwarts. With the help of a devious Ginny, and none from a pining Ron, Harry's in for an intersting ball. "For once, just be selfish and channel that Gryffindor courage and snog him."


This is just a quick Halloween oneshot I whipped out due to boredom at work. Not my best work, but I had fun writing it. It definitely helped to get me back into writing fanfiction after such a long break. (Although, after so long without doing something of this nature, I found the writing of the lemon ridiculously hard.)

WHY are there so few Halloween fictions? I love Halloween...there are a million Christmas fics out there, but so few when it comes to Halloween. At least in this fandom, you'd think there'd be a bit more effort... :P

I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from the writing or sharing of this story. All rights belong to JK Rowling and Warner Brothers.

Happy Halloween everyone! Enjoy!

**LINELINELINELINELINE**

"What should I be for Halloween this year?"

Harry shrugs in response, quill never halting in its trek across his parchment. He's very nearly done his Transfiguration essay and he's eager to be finished with his last bit of homework before Halloween weekend.

"Should I be something scary? A vampire, maybe? Or a werewolf? Or I could be a pirate or Merlin or something..."

"Yeah, Ron. Great. That sounds fine."

Just this one last sentence and...there! He's finally finished. Grinning, he puts down his quill and casts a drying spell on his parchment. He looks up just in time to catch the exasperated half-glare his ginger friend is giving him.

"Harry," he whines, "You're not even paying attention!"

Harry puts his hands up in mock defence. "Okay, okay! Sorry, mate. What was the question?"

Ron huffs, but the glare slides from his face anyway, his expression changing back to one of anxiety. "What should I be for Halloween? I'm running out of time. The ball is tomorrow."

He sounds so completely worried that it's an effort for Harry not to laugh. He loves his best mate, really he does, but sometimes it's the same love one has for a puppy - unconditional, but you still want to kick it when it pisses on the rug. "I don't know, Ron. Be an Auror or something."

Ron looks sullen. "Those robes are too bulky. I want something a bit more...flattering."

Ah. So that's it. Harry glances over to where his other bushy-haired friend is curled up with a book next to the fire, just out of earshot. Harry gives a sly half smile. "You mean you want to look sexy for Hermione."

He barely manages to dodge the smack aimed at his arm.

"Harry, this is serious! What're you going as?"

Harry shrugs again. "Mr. Orange."

Ron looks at him blankly.

"Tim Roth's character in Reservoir Dogs."

Ginger eyebrows raise.

"A muggle movie."

Ron blinks at him.

"Look, it's easy, it's my favourite film, and it's more comfortable than most Halloween costumes."

Plus, if he's being honest with himself, it's not flashy and will draw as little attention to himself as possible. On Halloween night, he likes to forget that he's Harry Potter. Being the anniversary of his parents' murder, he likes to have a few drinks and lose himself in the crowd and not be reminded by anybody that, oh yeah, he's _the_ Harry Potter and isn't this the night it all happened?

The red head shrugs. "If you say so, Harry. But I need something that people will _know_. You know...I wouldn't mind a bit of attention. From the girls, and such."

Harry grins at him. "From Hermione, you mean."

"Not just from Hermione!"

All the same, his face is nearly the same shade as his hair.

**LINELINELINELINELINE**

"That's it, Harry? A black suit and a black tie?"

Harry looks at Ginny quizzically. "Yes. So?" A black suit and black tie suit him very much, he thinks. And at least these clothes fit him, unlike the majority of his wardrobe.

The ginger girl rolls her eyes. "That's so _boring_, Harry! No one's even going to know what you're supposed to be!"

Harry takes a sip from his butterbeer and absent mindedly adjusts the bag containing his costume on the chair nest to him. "The muggleborns might. Hermione does."

Ginny huffs. "But how are you supposed to catch any of the girls' _or_ the blokes' attention in _that_?"

The flush that spreads up Harry's cheeks comes unbidden. Out of habit, he glances around to see if anyone is in earshot. Although it's become common knowledge that the saviour of the wizarding world is half bent (thanks to a rather revealing article in the Daily Prophet by Rita Skeeter, accompanied by a half-page photo of Harry stealing a kiss from a muggle boy over the summer juxtaposed with a half-page photo of a muggle girl stealing a kiss from him), he's gotten so used to hiding it that it's still strange for his friends to mention it out loud.

"That's the point, Gin. I don't _want_ anyone's attention. I just want to have a few drinks, have a few dances, and relax for the evening."

He doesn't like the feral smirk that stretches across Ginny's lips one bit.

"What about _his_ attention, Harry? Wouldn't you like a few dances from _him_?"

She doesn't have to say his name for Harry to understand exactly who she means.

"What about him? I told you, Ginny, I don't fancy him! We're just friends...why would it matter if he looks at me or not?"

"Oh, please, Harry. We dated. I know the look you get in your eyes when you like somebody, and it's a million times intensified when you're with him."

Harry buries his blush in his butterbeer. "Maybe you need a vision correction spell, then."

"I'm not the one with the hideous glasses. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out, Harry. He's bloody gorgeous, a complete charmer - well, he is _now _anyway, since his rotten father isn't looming over him - and he's got bad boy chic written all that firm bum. If he weren't a total pouf, I'd take a stab at him myself."

Harry doesn't say anything, mostly because his damn Gryffindor charisma makes it impossible to lie convincingly, and rebuffing any of what Ginny has just said would be a complete and utter lie and he knows it.

"You'd better not wait too long, Harry, or he'll slip away from you. For once, just be selfish and channel that Gryffindor courage and snog him."

Her hand is warm as she places it gently over his own. She smiles softly at him.

"You deserve a little happiness, Harry, but it's not just going to fall into your lap while you pine over it."

He's struck, suddenly, by just how perceptive Ginny is for someone of her age. He wonders, if it weren't for the war and her brother and the million little factors that turned his love for her from romantic to fraternal, if they would have ended up together. Once upon a time he yearned for just that. Now, as he looks into her bright, caring eyes, he finds himself filled with the gratitude and adoration he imagines one would have for an older, wiser sister. (He's only embarassed for a moment that, despite being younger than him, she manages to come across so much more mature.)

Then, abruptly, she pulls back and finishes her drink in one long swig. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a sinfully tight cat costume to find. You may be content with wanking over _your_ fantasy, but I'm going to find a decent shag at this ball if it kills me."

Harry visibly flinches. And it had been such a sweet moment, too. "Ginny!"

But she's already gathered her things and fastened her cloak and is making her way steadily to the door. He sighs as he turns back to his drink and takes a sullen draught. Suddenly, he can think of little else besides white-blonde hair and a wicked smile and pale, pale skin, and...

"Hello, Potter."

Later, Harry would insist that he hadn't jumped. He was a Gryffindor, after all, brave and always prepared. He had simply had a sudden itch at the exact same moment that Draco Malfoy decided to wander over to his table and make his presence known. (Malfoy, of course, would go to his grave insisting Harry was full of shit.)

Draco grins at him. "Did I frighten you?"

Harry manages to swallow the lump in his throat and remind himself to blink. _Don't stare._ "No. I was just...no. You didn't frighten me, Malfoy."

Malfoy grins like a cheshire cat and Harry tells the little voice in his head (that sounds suspiciously like Ginny) to _Shut up! I do NOT find that sexy_.

"Hm. Mind if I have a seat, then?"

Merlin knows Harry wants to say 'No, go the hell away,' but he can't think of an excuse for the blonde not to join him. Since the end of the war, wherein Malfoy defected to the light side and provided invaluable information and manpower for the Order of the Phoenix, he and Harry have found somewhat of an understanding. Something infinitely small and important had changed and it wasn't long after Voldemort fell that the two became something between acquaintances and friends. Draco had proven himself to be witty and rather pleasant in company, especially since his father was thrown in Azkaban. He insists it's because he no longer has to worry about upkeeping the Malfoy name; his father is gone and his mother has always been supportive, so there's no need for him to put up that "ridiculous, pure-blood-ideal-toting front" anymore.

He gets along with many of the Gryfinndors these days, and he and Ginny have become fast friends (a fact which had Ron steaming at the ears until Draco, in no uncertain terms, told him that unless his little sister grew a cock and lost the tits, there's be no attempts from him to get into her chastity belt). Harry grew to enjoy the occasional drink with his former enemy.

Then he noticed that the blonde was drop-dead gorgeous with a pert arse and an uncanny ability to charm anyone within a ten foot radius and wouldn't it be nice to run his fingers over every inch of that lithe body?

Since he's started wanking to the thought of plunging balls-deep into Malfoy's arse, Harry doesn't enjoy fraternizing with him so much anymore. Usually because it makes Harry feel more awkward than a Hippogriff in a tutu and ensures that his night will end with yet another sore right wrist.

"Be my guest."

Harry wonders, as Draco slides into the chair across from him and unclasps his cloak to drape it on the seat next to him, if the blonde knows he moves like a panther. He's all rolling joints and smooth, calculated movements. He moves like sex personified.

Or maybe Harry's just feeling a bit frisky.

"So, my dear Potter, what's your master plan for this evening? Going to dress up as a pimp, perhaps, and get all your screaming, adoring fangirls to come as your prostitutes?"

Even when he drawls, somehow, Harry thinks, Malfoy manages to sound attractive. Perhaps it's the fact that the acidity has gone from his taunts, replaced instead with a playful undertone.

Harry sends a mock glare at him, but he can't help smiling. "I'm not keen on seeing Parkinson in a net top and booty shorts, thanks very much."

Pansy had been one of Malfoy's recruits to the Order during the war, and apparently, as soon as she found out Harry couldn't take a fluttered eyelash in his direction without blushing, made it her mission to fake utmost adoration for him. Draco says torturing people is her favourite passtime. Harry thinks she's very good at it.

He earns a little chuckle from Malfoy for his comment, and he firmly squashes the butterflies that it raises in his stomach. "Better avert your eyes tonight, then. I've seen her costume. If someone opens the door at an inopportune moment and a breeze rolls in, you may just get proof that she's all woman."

Harry just manages to suppress his shudder.

Just.

Then he just manages to suppress the image of Draco in a skirt, proving that he's, in fact, all man.

_Just._

"So, Potter? You didnt answer me. What's the Boy-Who-Lived donning for this evening's festivities?"

He leans forward on the table and rests his head on his hand and cocks it to the side just so and Harry takes a swallow from his butterbeer just for an excuse to avert his eyes. Sometimes he swears Draco does these things on purpose.

"Nothing special. A character from a muggle movie."

"Which one?" Malfoy asks as he lazily beckons the waitress with a sideways glance and an elegantly upraised finger, nodding when she holds up a pitcher of butterbeer and a glass.

"Reservoir Dogs."

Malfoy breaks out into a grin and Harry nearly has to pinch himself to stop himself imagining what that grin would look like directed at him at an upward angle, just before the blonde slips his lips around Harry's...

_Stop it, boy wonder._

"I'd ask which character you're going as, but Mr. Orange, Mr. White, Mr. Blue, Mr. Pink, Mr. Brown, and Mr. Blonde all wear the same thing, so I guess it's irrelevant. Unless, Merlin forbid, you're going as Eddie."

It takes a moment for Harry to realize he's staring, mouth slightly agape. It's hard to remember, sometimes, that Malfoy has a bit of an obsession with muggle cinema and music. Given his pureblood upbringing and his six years of bad mouthing anything even remotely muggle, it's still strange to hear him spout knowledge about movies and bands that sometimes Harry himself hasn't even heard of. More than that, Reservoir Dogs is perhaps the last movie Harry would expect him to watch, along with Evil Dead and Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.

"Close your mouth, Potter, before something flies into it. How is it that I always manage to surprise you?"

Harry's mouth shuts so fast that Draco can hear his teeth click together from across the table.

"Sorry. It's just...I never would have pegged you for a Tarantino fan."

Malfoy's grin turns positively devillish. "Oh, Potter, there are things in my head that would _floor_ you."

Well, Harry _had_ been doing an alright job of keeping himself soft until that. Now his length twitches so violently in his pants that he surprised a shock wave doesn't fly through the pub.

"I'm...I'm sure there are," he finishes his drink as the waitress places a full glass on the table and Draco smiles dazzlingly to show his appreciation, "So...what're you going as?"

Malfoy takes a sip from his glass and smirks. "You'll just have to wait and see."

And, oh, the barrage of Mafloys in various sexy costumes positively _bombards_ Harry. Sexy cop, sexy fireman, nudist...Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his pants bulging uncomfortably in the crotch.

"Well...ah...I've got to go. I'm helping Ginny pick out her costume," he stumbles as he digs in his pockets for some galleons, "Got to make sure she's at least partially decent."

"Oh, please, her and I are getting together before the ball to make sure we're both sufficiently gorgeous. No matter how conservative you try to make that catsuit, I can promise you I know enough spells and have enough accesories to have her at least one quarter naked by seven."

Harry's throat nearly closes at the mention of "catsuit" and "naked" coming out of Malfoy's mouth in the same sentence. "Right, well...bye then! See you later!"

He tosses far too many coins on the table and awkwardly puts on his cloak while sitting, making sure he's completely covered and decent before grabbing his bag and hurrying out of the pub.

"Save a dance for me tonight, Potter!"

He nods his head absently without looking back at the Slytherin and sighs when the cold wind outside serves to shrink his bits back to their normal, flaccid state.

**LINELINELINELINELINELINELINE**

Harry wanks furiously.

Twice.

Ron's only answer when he asks Harry what took him so long in the shower is a grunt and a blush.

He is, however, infinitely more relaxed than he was before his shower-wank extravaganza, and at least he doesn't have to worry about maneuvering a hard-on into his trousers. And he's able to think about something other than what, exactly, Draco Malfoy will be wearing tonight (and in what order, exactly, he would enjoy taking it off), at least while he and the other boys in his dormitory busy themselves donning costumes.

Dean makes a rather convincing vampire, even spelling his teeth into long points. (Harry doesn't mention that he thinks the body glitter is just a tad poufy). Seamus does a little jig in his finished leprechaun costume as Neville straightens his Auror robes and dons the fake badge to go along with it. And Ron...

Harry can't help but admit, in a completely platonic fashion, of course, that Ron looks hot. He decided, last minute (and with a very large helping hand from his sister) to go as a muggle emo, and Harry, while he giggled at the idea at first, thinks that Ron actually pulls it off with quite a bit of success. He's wearing tight skinny jeans and an As I Lay Dying t-shirt, and his hair has been spelled into a severe 'emo-swoop' (courtesy of Ginny, yet again). He's even painted his nails black, donned a hint of eyeliner, and spelled some fake scars onto his forearm above the wrist bands he's wearing.

"Well?" he asks, fiddling with his beltloop, "What do you reckon?"

"You've got the obnoxiously titled and untalented band t-shirt, you're flipping your hair every two seconds, and you've got self-mutilation scars to prove to the world just how dark and depressing your life is. You look completely immature and like you're trying way too hard...so it's perfect," Seamus laughs.

Ron looks confused at this and the look he gives Harry is so pitiful that the Boy Who Lived can't help but laugh, too.

"You look good, Ron," he assures his friend, "Hermione will want to jump your bones, especially when she sees your bum in those pants."

He wonders, were he to put out the fire, if Ron's blush would glow.

Harry straightens his tie and checks his reflection one last time. He can't deny, he doesn't look half bad when his clothes actually fit him. And, looking objectively at his own arse, he admits to himself that he cleans up pretty well. He's even managed to make his hair lie halfway flat, which is a triumph all on its own.

"Right, well," Ron pauses and takes a large, nervous gulp, "Off we go, then."

It's just before seven as they make their way to the common room, and most of the house has already left for the great hall. Only a handful of girls are left, touching up each other's makeup and complimenting each other constantly ("You make _such_ a good fairy, Padma!" "But you look so much cuter as a pirate! I _wish_ I had your costume!") Girls are strange that way, Harry thinks.

By the time they get to the Great Hall, nearly all the seventh and eighth years are already there and the music has just started (the younger years have been delegated to other areas of the school for more age-appropriate parties - as it is it took two months of hard petitioning for Hermione to convince Dumbledore to allow alcohol - in moderation, of course, and charmed to allow only those of age to partake - for the oldest students in the school). The Hall itself is filled from top to bottom with jack'o'lanterns and fake bats charmed to fly from one place to another and fake cobwebs and black cats that sit still, ears and tails twitching, on the window ledges. Hermione (who, as head girl, insisted on spear-heading the project) has outdone herself.

Even better are all the students. Harry finds himself in a whirlwind of trolls and goblins and pixies and lions and werewolves and short skirts and outlandish wigs and bright make-up. He grins as he makes his way over to the bar with Ron, passing on their way a very convincing zombie, complete with rotten flesh and an eyeball hanging loosely from a socket.

God, Harry loves magic.

"Firewhiskey," he calls to the (rather attractive) bartender. He takes a look at Ron, but finds that the red head is busily scanning the crowd, most likely searching fervently for a certain bushy-haired head girl. "Make it two."

He shoves the drink into Ron's hand. "A bit of liquid courage, mate," he says with an encouraging smile.

Ron grins appreciatively (although he still looks like he's going to be sick at any moment) and downs his drink in one gulp. Harry chuckles as he takes a sip of his own drink, the liquid burning a trail down his throat and settling comfortably in his stomach. His palms tingle with it and he grabs Ron by the elbow. "Come on," he says, "Let's go find Hermione."

The whimper that escapes Ron's mouth is so high pitched that Harry can't help but wonder if perhaps those pants are squeezing his friend's bits a tad too tightly.

They make their way around the edge of the Hall, eyes peeled for bushy hair or perhaps a large tome. They come across a startlingly accurate Professor Snape (and Harry thinks Justin Finch-Fletchley should count his lucky stars that the potions professor is stuck in the hospital wing for the evening after a rather messy incident involving too many frog's legs and a large explosion; he somehow doubts Snape would appreciate the large, crooked nose that Justin has attached to his face, charmed to drip a constant flow of grease). Pavarti's costume is a barely-there Cleopatra (Harry pinches Ron's arm hard when the redhead begins to stare). Luna has on a shaggy purple and yellow suit and her hair is a rat's nest. ("I'm a Bardingus Bleeberhop," she offers as an explanation).

Harry's just about ready to throw in the towel and suggest they go back for another drink before continuing to search when a mass of supple brown curls bumps directly into his chest. "Sorry!" he says, glad that at least his drink was empty and he didn't spill anything down the poor girl's costume, "I wan't watching where I...was...going..."

"Sweet mother of Merlin..." Ron's murmurs, and Harry can't agree more.

The mass of curls is, in fact, sitting atop a very pretty face which is sitting atop a very shapely body which belongs to (and Harry wouldn't believe it if he weren't looking her directly in the eye) Hermione. She's wearing a deep scarlet dress with a plunging neckline and, even though it reaches her ankles, the slit that runs up the side to her mid thigh destroys any illusions of modesty. Black lace trim makes her look surprisingly pale. A black choker sits on her throat, a single pearl nestled in the dip of her collarbone, and her lips are a sinful red. A single black feather sits nestled in her (apparently completely de-bushed and masterfully curled) hair.

"Erm...what...uh...what are you...er...dressed as?"

Harry's glad Ron asks the question, because his own mind hasn't finished imploding yet.

Hermione grins, her smokey-eye-shadowed eyes twinkling with mirth. "A saloon girl. You like it?"

Suddenly, it becomes very funny and Harry can't help but burst out laughing. Hermione looks hurt (and Ron looks at him like his nose is about to be very quickly introduced to the ginger's fist), but Harry quickly shakes his head. "No! I'm not laughing _at_ you! I love it! It's just..." he takes a deep breath to calm himself, "It's just..._Merlin, _Hermione. You're..._hot_. Really hot. Like, scorching. And here I thought you'd be a librarian or something."

Hermione smiles again. "You know me. I don't do anything in half measures."

Ron's gulp is audible. "Clearly."

Very abruptly, Harry feels like a third wheel. Ron is staring slack-jawed at Hermione and she's smiling shyly back and the atmosphere is so awkward the Boy Who Lived can very nearly taste it. The two of them are worse than he is when he's confronted with a certain grey-eyed Slytherin.

"Alright, you two," he says, clearing his throat, "I'm going to go get a drink and see if I can catch up with some other people."

The look Ron gives him is shouting 'DON'T LEAVE ME!' so loudly Harry nearly has to plug his ears. He nods encouragingly at his best mate. 'Ask her to dance' he mouths before kissing the back of Hermione's hand and slipping away through the crowd.

He makes it back to the bar with a minimum of elbows to the ribs, keeping to the wall as much as possible. The music has grown louder and a crowd has started to gather in the middle of the dance floor. The bartender smiles at him, all dimples and straight white teeth, and Harry grins back. "Another Firewhiskey," he calls, and the bartender winks at him.

Harry's glad the man turns away before he can see the bright flush rises up his cheeks.

"Harry!"

He turns and is greeted with a brightly smiling Ginny. True to her word, her catsuit is skin tight, complete with stilleto heels, a tail that flicks languidly back and forth, and twitching black ears protruding from her hair.

"Wow, Gin," he says, appraising her from top to bottom, "You look great!"

"I know," she laughs, "Absolutely shaggable. The tail is Draco's doing."

Harry nods. "He's done a good job."

Just then the bartender returns and slides him his drink, brushing his fingers ever so lightly against Harry's as the brunette takes it. Harry doesn't notice the furrowed eyebrows that Ginny sends his way.

"Where is Draco, anyway?" Harry asks as he takes a large gulp from his glass. He hopes he sounds nonchalant, but the feral smile on his companion's face lets him know he's failed miserably.

"He was closer to the door, last time I saw him. With Pansy and Blaise."

Harry nods, biting his lip.

Ginny stares at him.

Harry looks anywhere but at Ginny.

The music has gotten even louder. He can feel the bass reverberating in his chest.

"Oh for Merlin's sake, Harry! Go say hello!"

"What? No, I was just curious..."

He trails off at the murderous look he's receiving.

"...right. Well. I'll just go say hello to Malfoy, then."

Ginny nods stiffly. "Goddamn right you will. Now go. Scoot!"

He turns and hurries away from her. For a moment, he considers perhaps finding Luna again and having a dance, but Ginny has a way of finding things out, and he knows if he doesn't do as she says he'll have hell to pay. The closer he gets to the doors, the larger his sips of Firewhiskey get. His heart begins to pound uncomfortably hard and he fights with all his might to stop a blush from rising to his cheeks.

_It's okay_, he tells himself firmly, _It's only bloody Malfoy._

Then he catches a glimpse of only bloody Malfoy and all the saliva in his mouth seems to dry up all at once.

The blonde is wearing obnoxiously tight, white leather trousers and a white shirt, the top few buttons left undone. White suspenders climb up his (partially visible, thanks to the translucent quality of the shirt) chest while black boots, dragon hide with buckles, sit on his feet. A black bowler hat is perched on his head, hair peeking out the bottom and brushing his cheekbones. One grey-blue eye is heavily ringed with kohl and excentuated with fake eyelashes.

He's a droog from A Clockwork Orange, only Harry has never seen a droog costume so gratuitously sexy.

With a deep breath (and one last long draught of Ogden's Finest) he approaches Malfoy.

"Draco," he calls over the music, and when grey eyes land on him he wonders if he'll be able to blame his pink cheeks on the alcohol.

Malfoy smirks at him. "Hi, hi, hi there, Potter. What a nice surprise. You look," he pauses as he rakes his eyes from the top to the bottom of the brunette's frame, "Quite good when you wear something that isn't seven sizes too big. You clean up rather well, in fact, though I maintain a pimp costume would have been much more amusing." (1)

Harry smiles. "You look good, too. A Clockwork Orange seems much more up your alley. A juvenile delinquent with a sadistic streak...just like you, I'd say."

He only flinches a bit when Draco flicks him on the arm.

"Well, well, well."

Harry flinches a bit more when he feels a strange hand run down his arm. He looks hurriedly over to his right, only to be met with a very heavily made-up Pansy.

"You look good enough to eat, Potter. I like a man who dresses well."

She looks positively delighted at his pink ears.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Parkinson. You look..."

He pauses, looking her over. Draco was right. Her skirt stops just below her arse and her shirt leaves a ring of flesh visible around her midriff. What, exactly, she's supposed to be is a mystery. Her skirt is a flouncy black number and her shirt is corset like and a deep green. With her tall black boots, he almost entertains the idea that she really has dressed up like a prostitute. Or a cross between a dominatrix and a porn star.

"...you look half naked, actually."

For some reason, this elicts a bright smile. "Why thank you, Potter!" she exclaims as a tall man dressed as a matador walks by and she raises one eyebrow, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think my dinner just walked by." She walks away, eyes firmly on the man's bum, before she can notice the incredulous look Harry's giving her.

"Don't mind her," Blaise says, materializing on Harry's left, "I don't think even she knows what she's supposed to be. Other than an easy lay for anyone who catches her eye tonight."

Harry must admit, Blaise has done much better than Pansy. He's wearing normal muggle clothes, but there's a viscous goop smeared here and there, sticking his clothes to his muscular frame, and around his neck he's wearing a sign that says 'I've just been in a Potion's Lab with Neville Longbottom'.

Harry hides his laugh behind a cough. He should be offended for Neville. Yes. Neville is is friend and this is not funny in the least.

Blaise grins at him. "Oh, have a chuckle. Longbottom's already seen it and he says it's alright. He knows he's rubbish at Potions."

So Harry laughs. Just a bit.

"That one was my idea," Draco says, "My genius knows no bounds."

"Not when it comes to humiliating people, anyway."

This time Harry manages to avoid the flick aimed at him.

No one says anything. Blaise clears his throat. Malfoy looks at Harry. Harry looks into his empty glass.

"Alright, you two," he says, "I'm going to go get a drink and see if I can catch up with some other people."

Harry blinks.

Well, that sounds very familiar. _Dear Merlin_, he thinks, _We've become the new Ron and Hermione_.

Ot, at least, he's become the new Ron. Draco is never shy and never awkward like Hermione. Although, tonight, the two are a close match in terms of sexiness...only Draco's arse looks painfully good in those trousers and Harry can't help himself wondering how quickly he could peel them off...

He stops that train of thought dead in its tracks.

_Must not think sexy thoughts about Draco, _he chides himself, _Or do you __**want**__ a boner in these pants?_ Cotton is not a very good concealer of hard-ons.

"Okay, Potter, that's quite enough of that blank stare. You promised me a dance."

Had he?

_"Save a dance for me tonight, Potter!"_

_He nods his head absently without looking back at the Slytherin and sighs when the cold wind outside serves to shrink his bits back to their normal, flaccid state._

So he had.

Stupid wanker, he was.

"I suppose I did."

He stands perfectly still. Draco rolls his eyes. Taking the glass from Harry's hand and putting on a nearby table, he drags the boy by the wrist to the middle of the dance floor. "While we're _young_, Potter."

The music is something with a good beat and a heavy bassline. All around him bodies are twisting and turning to the beat. Usually, Harry loves it here, right in the middle of the action. He's not a bad dancer, he knows. He's perhaps not the best, but he can hold his own, even with a partner.

But for some reason, as Draco begins to swivel his hips and tilt his head back and forth, Harry, even with the firewhiskey beginning to make him feel a little light in the head, feels incredibly stiff and clumsy. He's too busy watching the way the bright lights make Malfoy seem to glow, the way his eyes seem to melt into a swirling liquid mercury. By now he'd usually be lost in the music and sweat and movement, forgetting everything but the feel of the thump-a-thump-a-thump-a. By now he'd usually be blissfully unaware of who anyone is and, best of all, who he is.

Tonight, however, he's aware of everything and can't seem to properly coordinate his body to the beat.

Malfoy leans forward and their chests are just inches apart. "Come on, Potter," he yells over the music, lips so close to his ear he can feel Draco's breath, "I've seen you dance before. You can do better than that." He reaches up and places his hands on Harry's shoulders. "Just relax. I promise I won't bite."

Harry swallows hard. What if he _wants_ Draco to bite...?

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The little voice in his head is back - the one that definitely sounds like Ginny - and it chides him 'Are you a Gryffindor or not? Where's that headstrong courage, consequences be damned?'

He brings his hands up to rest on Malfoy's waist (_Merlin_ but the boy is slim). Draco smiles up at him.

Well. In for a knut, in for a galleon, he supposes. He is, after all, a Gryffindor.

He begins to dance in earnest, hips swinging in time with his partner's, so close that their chests graze everyone one in a while (and Harry is glad the music is so loud; he'd never live it down if anyone were to hear the little choked gasps those touches cause). His finger's tighten against the soft white fabric of Malfoy's shirt, marvelling at the heat radiating through.

"That's more like it," Draco says with a wide grin and his eyes are positively glowing.

Then the detachment begins and Harry revels in it. Reality starts to slips away only it's different this time because he's not lost in the music and the crowd and the scent of sweat and alcohol. He's lost in the way the man in his arms moves, lost in the way his heart is beating far to fast and the buzz in his head and the nervous energy that he can only keep at bay by continuing to move in tandem.

The songs ends. He barely notcies. Another begins and they adjust their pace. Draco steps up closer to Harry and the latter has to adjust his stance so that Malfoy doesn't brush up against the hardness that's growing between his legs. Dimly, Harry is aware that other dancers are sending curious glances their way.

Quite a sensation, he supposes, seeing himself and Draco Malfoy dancing the way they are.

"Harry."

Malfoy is looking at him, now, with an odd expression. It's one that Harry can't quite place, one that he doesn't think he's ever seen on the other's face.

"Yeah?"

Draco pauses for a second. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again wordlessly. Harry blinks at him. That's why the expression is odd. It's hesitant and almost nervous, a look that the always confident Malfoy never wears. "It's not like you to be speechless."

Then there's a fiery determination in those eyes and Harry can't help but grin at it. He likes thinking that he's the only one that can light Draco Malfoy's eyes on fire like that. He's the only one who can get to him.

"How long are you planning on making me wait?"

Now it's Harry's turn to be speechless. "Huh?" he asks, ever so eloquent as usual.

Then mercury eyes roll and a sigh (not audible over the music) escapes Draco's lips and he calls, "Really, for the Gryffindor Golden Boy, either you're completely clueless or your so-called breavery has been greatly exaggerated."

Suddenly, Malfoy grabs Harry's hips and pushes his own firmly against them. Harry bites back a gasp (because, really, that feels far too good against his half-hard length, and only serves to harden him completely). He blushes heavily, mortified, until he realizes with a shock so heavy it nearly makes his eyes roll back in his head that Draco is just as hard as he is, pushing against his hip.

"Is this what you wanted?" Malfoy asks, his voice just the tiniest bit more breathy, "Proof? I fancy you, you blind ponce."

They've stopped dancing and Harry is all too aware of the fact that he's breathing far too hard and staring at Draco like the blonde's gone barking mad. Grey eyes look back at him and once again, there's a hint of nervousness, so faint it's nearly invisible. If Harry weren't standing this close this, he'd not even notice the tiny worry line that spreads across his partner's face.

"Well?" Draco ventures, and later he would insist that his voice did _not _quiver with anticipation (Harry would insist that he was full of shit), "Let's see this famed courage in action. Don't just stare at me like I've grown two heads."

A slow, languid smile spreads across Harry's face and it's entirely too Slytherin for Malfoy's liking.

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Harry says and Draco barely has time to raise an eyebrow before the dark-haired teen is pulling him forward by the waist and kissing him soundly.

It starts out innocently enough, the two boys testing the waters, pushing firmly but tentatively against each other's lips. Then Draco tilts his head and Harry's fingers tighten and each of them thrusts forward out of instict and something small and important changes and suddenly everything becomes more desperate. Harry's wanted this for so long and now he has it and he can barely believe it and he pulls the blonde forward as if afraid he'll slip away. The kiss becomes an insistent battle of tongue against toungue, chest against chest. Draco fists his hands in Harry's hair. Harry's hips jut forward and he groans at the contact.

By the time they pull apart, breathing heavily, the people nearest them are gaping openly, more than a few red in the face.

"Took you fucking long enough," Malfoy pants.

Harry grins. "If you weren't such a fucking Slytherin about it. I'm a Gryffindor. Subtlety is not my strong suit. Put up or shut up."

"How about..." Draco pauses and glances down at their hips, still pressed tightly together, "...put _out_ or shut up?"

It's such a cheesy line that Harry almost laughs, but the images it bring forward are enough to stop him. "God, yes," he growls and this time it's him dragging Malfoy by the wrist and they barely make it out of the Great Hall and into the first classroom they stumble across before they're locked at the lips once again. Harry can't be sure, but he thinks he may have bumped into Ginny and perhaps Pansy on the way, both of them smirking like mad.

The thought flies from his head as he back's Draco up against the door and their bodies press flush together. The bowler goes toppling off but neither teen seems to notice. Now, in the quiet of the classroom, Harry can hear the soft gasping, moaning noises Malfoy is making deep in his throat and his length twitches at the sound.

It's fantastic. Draco tastes different than Harry's been expecting. He tastes like heat and cognac, something warm and exotic and too tempting to resist. He kisses him desperately, pulling him closer, closer, _please_ closer until all he can feel is his willing mouth and hard body and _Merlin_ his hard cock.

He pulls back and peppers kisses down Draco's neck, nipping and tasting and marvelling at the sounds his motions elict. He reaches blindly with his hands, touching everywhere he can reach, savouring the feel of hot, warm leather and cotton. He reaches the junction between shoulder and neck and all her can smell is the other boy and _fuck_ he's harder than he's ever been in his life.

Pale, elegant fingers push at his chest and he pulls back just enough so that he can still place occasional kisses against Draco's jaw. The Slytherin makes fast work of his shirt, buttons flying open faster than Harry can see them, then suddenly there are cool fingers against his chest and Draco gasps and Harry can't stop the groan that rises in his throat.

He takes his hands away from the trim waist before him only long enough to allow Draco to slip his shirt and jacket off his shoulders and drag his tie over his head before he's right back, working at the buttons on the blonde's oxford. He finds his fingers tripping over themselves in his haste and, with a growl, simply grabs both sides and rips the thing apart. Draco makes an indignant noise, but is rather quickly turns into a sharp gasp as the brunette find a nipple and rubs teasing circles over it.

"Fuck, Harry..."

Then they're kissing again, harder and faster and oh so much better as they grow accustomed to one another. They're touching and feeling and mapping and memorizing and Harry bucks almost violently when Draco pushes his hand firmly against the front of his trousers.

"Closer," Draco murmurs, pulling away and tugging at the waistband of Harry's pants, "I need to feel you..."

The tone in his voice, all low and sexy and needy, turns Harry on more than he would have thought possible. He shucks off his pants, only a little clumsily, and watches with bated breath as Draco does the same, those sinful leather pants sliding inch by inch over slim hips, suspenders and shirt landing in a pile at his feet.

For a moment, they look at each other, marvelling at the expanse of skin available, savouring the newness of each other's nudity. Then Draco steps forward and wraps his arms around Harry's neck and simply embraces him, body flush against body. They hold each other for a moment, feeling this new thing, this new creation, letting the intimacy of the moment take hold. Harry inhales deeply Draco's scent as Draco murmurs against Harry's neck, "Touch me."

Then the heat is back and it's a thousand degrees hotter and the feel of Draco's naked body is so much better than all of Harry's fantasies. He's tangible; Harry can smell him, taste him, _oh fuck_ **feel** him and he gasps, "Yes..."

Hands roam everywhere (and Harry finds that yes, indeed, Draco's bum is as deliciously firm as it looks) as they sink first to their knees then down onto the floor with Harry lying in between Draco's legs. Draco's fingers work magic, meandering here and there and up and down and Harry feels dizzy with the sensation. He kisses and licks at every bit of skin he can find, enjoying especially the way the body beneath him writhes when he runs his tongue firmly over each nipple.

"I want..." Draco seems to be having trouble speaking, "_Fuck_ Harry, I want..."

What he wants, exactly, is made exceedingly clear when he wandlessly lubricates the fingers on Harry's right hand and his cock.

The unexpected feeling causes the dark-haired man to thrust downward, which in turn causes a fantastic friction between the two.

"Fuck..." Harry pants, "Warn me next time."

"Next time I'll get you wet with my mouth."

He can't argue with that. In fact just the thought of it...

"_Merlin,_ Draco."

He leans back and reaches down and circles one finger lightly around the tight ring of muscle he finds, delighting in the way the other man's length twitches at the contact. Slowly, carefully, he pushes forward, breaching his partner and biting his lip at the sudden sensation of heat and tightness; the urge to fuck preparation and sink into Draco is a hard one to resist.

"More," Draco urges, "_More_..."

And how can Harry resist that?

He prepares his lover quickly, adding another finger and then another, so hard it's painful as that pale, beautiful body begins to sweat and writhe.

"Are you...?" he pauses and swallows hard, "I need to...I want you so badly, Draco."

He gets a frenzied nod and a deep groan as a response.

He crawls up Draco's body, positions himself carefully, and then slowly...so slowly...

He's hardly aware of the gasps and groans and moans and fragmented sentences that are spilling from his mouth and from Draco's. He only knows heat and pressure and it's so good he thinks he might just pass out from it.

He pauses once he's fully inside, looks down into silvery eyes at the same moment silvery eyes look up at him, and the feeling he gets is so shattering, so intense, that he lets out a shuddering breath and whispers, "I'll never be able to let you go, now."

The look that crosses Draco's face makes his heart leap. It's something between adoration and gratitude and an emotion Harry has never seen someone direct at his person. "Make love to me."

A phrase so sappy would be humourous coming from his mouth if Harry weren't buried inside him. Instead it suddenly, somehow, becomes the most erotic phrase the Boy Who Lived can fathom.

And Harry takes the request very seriously. He moves slowly at first, as much for Draco's adjustment as for his own stamina, but when the Slytherin suddenly arches upward and excalims, "Fucking _yes_, right there!" Harry can't stop his hips from snapping forward with more fervor.

Soon it's fast and frenzied and Harry is kissing and nipping again and Draco is making the most attractive noises. He tries not to think about the fact that he's finally, _finally_ fucking Draco Malfoy, lest he come spontaneously, but as it is the feel of it all - skin and sweat and that aching tightness - is getting him close to the edge.

When Draco reaches down and starts hurriedly wanking himself, he gets even closer.

"Harry...I'm going to..."

Harry can only moan in response.

Then the tightness becomes unbearable and he feels something hot and wet splash against his abdomen and the Slytherin underneath him is trembling and writhing and Harry's coming harder than he thought was possible.

He collapses, boneless, atop Draco as they both fight to catch their breaths. After a few moments, the blonde pushes weakly against his shoulders. "You're crushing me, golden boy."

Harry would snicker at that, but it's hard enough to breathe, let alone laugh. He pulls out of Draco's entrance gingerly and stretches out beside him. The fairer teen wrinkles his nose before casting a wandless cleaning charm, and Harry shivers as the spell rids him of the evidence of their earlier activities.

Draco rolls onto his side to look at his green-eyed partner. Absently, he runs a finger in absract patterns across the boy's abs, smiling softly at the sigh it earns him.

"So...I take it we're dating, then?" Harry asks, and his voice has a rather attractive hint of roughness to it from their lovemaking. He hopes the ridiculous amount of hopefulness he feels can't be heard in his tone.

It can, but Draco doesn't tell him that.

"Well, technically for two people to be dating, they need to actually go on a date."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Don't be a wanker."

"You seemed to enjoy me wanking just a few minutes ago."

"..."

"You're ever so cute when you blush, Harry."

"..."

"Oh don't give me that look. It's a technicality, yes, but it's is true. You haven't _technically_ taken me out on a date, so we can't be dating...but I _will_ start referring to you as my boyfriend. And if I see that bartender making eyes at you again I'm going to rip his feet off and use them to kick him in the head."

"..."

"Stop giving me that sappy, goofy grin. You look like a lovesick Hufflepuff."

Now Harry finds the strength to laugh. When it dies down, as he looks at Draco, takes in his mussed hair and sated, easy, devious smile, something in his stomach flutters wildly. Draco Malfoy is finally his; this pale, beautiful, wonderfully flawed man is going to kiss him and lie with him and _be _with him and Harry has never felt so pleased with anything in his entire life.

He feels luckier than he did under the influence of Felix Felicis.

He captures Draco's lips and this time the kiss is languid and unhurried. It's not desperate or frenzied or exploratory. It's slow; they move together, embracing the closeness, the _easiness_, of this new thing they've got.

After everything, this feels so wonderfully right.

"I think I quite enjoy kissing you, Potter."

Draco smiles. Harry smiles back.

"So, who should we tell first? Ginny'll positively squeal with fangirl-like excitement and Ron might piss his pants a little..."

"..."

"What? I know that look...that's the Draco Malfoy 'I know something you don't know' look."

"..."

"Stop smirking at me!"

"I'm pretty sure everyone will already know."

"And why is that?"

"You dragged me out of the Great Hall with a raging hard-on...and then didn't cast a silencing charm on the door."

"..."

"..."

"...shit."

**LINELINELINELINELINE**

Harry Potter has been given a lot of attention in his short life. As such, he's no stranger to a roomful of eyes swivelling to stare at him at the exact same moment upon his entrance. He's become rather used to (even if he's still frustrated by) whispers following him, expressions ranging from incredulous to suspicious.

But he's never felt quite as awkward as he does as he tries (unsuccessfully) to slip, unnoticed, into the Great Hall.

Draco, conversely, seems right at home, patented Malfoy smirk number 206 painted across his face.

As the doors slide open, the music, blasting only moments before, screeches to a halt and a deafening silence takes hold. No one talks. No one even seems to breathe. Hundreds of eyes land, unblinking, on the two teens standing in the doorway, clothes rumpled and hair mussed.

Someone coughs.

Harry blushes a nearly fluorescent red.

Ginny, standing at the front of the crowd, looks for all the world like the cat that got the cream.

"Erm..." Harry clears his throat.

Silence reigns.

Then, somewhere in the throng of people off the the left, Pansy's voice calls out, unusually harsh in the complete quiet, "Well?"

Harry looks confused. Draco looks devious.

"Alright, alright, you bloody perverts," he sighs dramatically and then pulls Harry close and kisses him.

Harry only struggles for a second. Applause breaks out and Draco's tongue does a little twirl and suddenly he can't quite remember why he was supposed to stop kissing the blonde devil...

"Right!" Draco yells as he pulls away from a breathless Harry, "This is my boyfriend. And _this,_" he reaches down and cups the front of the brunettes trousers (which in turn causes a high-pitched, indignant squeak), "is his _boomstick._ And anyone, _anyone_, who has any ideas about touching my boyfriend's boomstick who isn't me..." he doesn't finish as he looks pointedly in the direction of the bar. Instead, he slips his wand from his sleeve and blows up one of the fake cats on the windowsill. (2)

Silence reigns again.

The bartender has fainted.

Harry wonders if it's possible to blush one's self to death.

Finally, Ginny steps forward. "Right...well, I think that should clear up any misconceptions about the monogamy of their relationship," she calls, "Now is this a ball or not? Start the music! Have a dance! Snog somebody!"

A great wave of chatter breaks out amongst the crowd. The music starts again. Slowly, eyes break away from the scene at the back of the Hall (although glances are still thrown their way every few moments). People start to dance.

"Well, took you two bloody long enough. Although next time, cast a silencing charm will you? Ron nearly had a stroke when he went looking for you and heard...well...you know."

Harry groans. Draco's smile is a hundred watts bright.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bet to collect on from Pansy," Ginny says as she turns on her heel, "Parkinson! Oi, Parkinson! You heard as well as I did, Harry topped! Don't you run away from me! Cough it up!"

If it weren't for the fact that Harry has already reached the absolute limit of mortification, he'd probably blanche at that statement.

"A dance, then, love?"

He looks over into the grey-blue eyes of his boyfriend.

He considers saying no, considers saying that he's tired and embarassed and would much rather just go to bed and try to sleep off the shock of everything that's happened. But as he watches those eyes soften, watches the way Draco looks at him with something that may, one day, just turn into love, he answers without thinking:

"Yeah. A dance would be nice."

And it is.

**LINELINELINELINELINE**

A/N: Thanks for reading. Happy Halloween, everybody! (Psst...reviews are better than Halloween candy for me!)

PS I apologize for any errors that may be present. I was forced to write this at my office which doesn't have Word (go figure). WordPad doesn't have spell check or auto-correct, and I'm bad for mistakes due to fast typing. I've tried to read it over as best I can, but if anything slipped through, I apologize.

Also, as for the silliness at the end...

I'm sorry! I couldn't resist. I hope you all find it as fun to read as it was to write.

(1) Great big hugs to anyone who got the Clockwork Orange in Draco's speech here.

(2) Bonus points and so much love for anyone who got this Army of Darkness reference!


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